Part 19 (2/2)

The Frenchman fired the pistol, and the governor fell onto his desk in agony. ”The map,” the Frenchman said, holding his left hand out, palm up.

The governor reached into his desk and grabbed a rolled map. He handed it to the Frenchman, and when he did, the Frenchman peeled the rings from his fingers. He picked Emer up and walked through the door, gently so she wouldn't hit her head.

When they were free of the stone building, the sun beat down on Emer's dying body and her head went limp. The Frenchman hurried to the dock, up the gangplank of his own frigate, the Chester Chester, and screamed for the s.h.i.+p's doctor. His first mate, the man Emer had once thought was his servant, reached out to help steady his captain.

”Hurry! The woman is dying!” the Frenchman cried. Emer lost consciousness again, puzzled at the irony that surrounded her-puzzled about how she should feel about her rescue-puzzled about what would become of her if she lived.

Fred Livingstone inspected his chin in the rearview mirror.

”That b.i.t.c.h,” he said, rubbing the red mark where he'd collided with the head of his beautiful bikini girl.

You certainly made a mess of that, Fred.

”Shut up.”

You looked like a creep.

”Just shut up.”

You should watch where you're going, Fred. You never know who you'll b.u.mp into.

”You think this is funny then, do you?”

It is is funny. funny.

”Just shut up,” Fred answered, and he turned on the radio.

He drove home and parked the car in the garage, went quickly to the bar in his office, and inspected his chin again in the mirror. He fixed himself a large drink and sat down on the nearest barstool, resting his head in his hand.

”I blew it.”

No point in fretting, Fred. She'll be gone in a week or two. You'll find plenty more after that and forget she ever existed.

”No. She has to pay. She has to pay for turning me down. No woman ever turns me down!” He gulped from the gla.s.s. ”I'll take her out and get her drunk. She'll fall for me then. They always do.”

Fall over, you mean, right? Because of the drugs you put in her drink?

”Oh, shut up, will you? You're always mocking me, and where are your your good ideas? You never have anything good ideas? You never have anything good good to say, do you?” to say, do you?”

I said something good this morning.

”Oh, you did?”

Yeah. You should see a shrink.

Fred's voices were interrupted by a knock at the front door. He tried to see from the corner of his gla.s.s wall who it was, but the bougainvillea had outgrown its original position and now blocked his view, so he walked down the stairs and looked out the peephole in the door. There was no one there, so he returned to the office.

I was right, you know. You should should see a shrink. see a shrink.

Before he could answer, the knock sounded again. He went back downstairs and looked through the peephole again. Still, no one was there. He unbolted the door and opened it roughly, but saw nothing. He walked out to the patio and looked both ways. No one was there.

Hearing things, Fred?

”Oh, shut up. You heard it too.”

He walked back to the office and sat in his leather chair, swigging a sip of his bourbon and melted ice and swirling the crystal gla.s.s around.

”She can't turn me down! Not after turning me down in the bank!”

She can and she will, Fred. You're wasting your time. She's a little girl. You're an old man.

”I'm middle-aged.”

You're old. You're old and you're a queer.

”I'm-” Before Fred could answer, the knock came again. He raced down the stairs, growling, and swung the door open only to find Rusty, out of breath and wagging his tail.

”d.a.m.n you! f.u.c.king dog!” He brought the crystal gla.s.s down on the dog's head, shattering it. ”You f.u.c.king a.s.shole!” he spat, kicking Rusty in the ribs. The dog jumped back up with a yelp and moved away. Fred pursued him and grabbed out for his neck. Rusty avoided each grope, one after the other, until Fred gave up and went back inside. He returned to his office, fixed another gla.s.s of bourbon, and sat down in his yellow chair. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, he pictured Saffron in her coral bikini, scolding him.

You shouldn't hit your dog like that.

”Let me make it up to you,” he answered.

Make it up to me me?

”Let me take you to dinner.”

She said you shouldn't hit the dog, Fred. She thinks you're an a.s.shole.

”Shut up and let her answer! You'll see!”

I think you're an a.s.shole.

”What?”

She put a hand on her slender hip. I said I think you're an a.s.shole. You shouldn't hit your dog. I said I think you're an a.s.shole. You shouldn't hit your dog.

See? I told you! She thinks you're an a.s.shole!

”No, you you think I'm an a.s.shole.” think I'm an a.s.shole.”

I do too, she agreed.

”Well, f.u.c.k you both, then. I'll show you just how big of an a.s.shole I can be.”

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